


Glazed in Honey

by Snowgrouse



Category: Escape (1940), Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Ageplay, BDSM, Belts, Bondage, Carrying, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Dark Het, Debauchery, Discipline, Dominant Male Character, Domination, F/M, Face-Fucking, Genital Shaving, Hair-pulling, Held Down, Horny Teenagers, Jackboots, Monocle porn, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, PWP, Piano Sex, Rough Sex, Schoolgirls, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Spanking, Submissive Female Character, Uniforms, Unpolished, Vaginal Sex, Whipping, World War II, belt whipping, can be read as a standalone/original fic, dirty old man, instafic, pussy juice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 20:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6128536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt shaves Ursula's bits, ties her up, whips her and takes her over the piano. As you do when you are a sadistic Nazi baron and have a 17-year-old horny schoolgirl to debauch.</p><p><i>"Not here," he says, slapping her on the pussy, sending her jerking. He gets up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Over the piano."</i> </p><p><i>"The piano?" She'd much rather do it on the bed, or the sofa, at least.</i> </p><p>
  <i>"Yes, the piano," he says as he ushers her out of the bathroom, his hand a command upon the small of her back, brooking no argument.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>And there she lies, in broad daylight, splayed out on her belly over the piano. Kurt has spread her legs horizontally--he had watched the girls in secret during their daily exercises and had noticed Ursula had been the most flexible of them all, he'd said. And now he wants her to prove it, to elevate this flexibility to a real, worthy purpose: the enhancement of pleasure. Thus, he has arranged her into a near-full split, her pussy just on the edge of the piano, the lips of it spread out by his expert hands so that the entire weight of her pelvis is pressing her clitoris into the surface. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glazed in Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Quickly written instafic, regarding the tags on [this Escape post right here](http://filmforfancy.tumblr.com/post/137806021950): yes, there are indeed ravishments to be had over that piano. Thanks for the inspiration, filmforfancy/ataslightangle, you sordid bitch. THANKS.
> 
> May or may not be read as to be taking place in the same 'verse as [The Urge to Fall](http://archiveofourown.org/works/536500), but it's not an "official" sequel (besides, that one is far more polished). Can be read without any knowledge of the film, if you but know Kurt is Conrad Veidt and Ursula is Bonita Granville and that they have the most sensual, evil of chemistries far more interesting than that of the nominal heroes.
> 
>  Because, you know. A movie bad enough to have a Sadistic Nazi Baron (TM) and a Horny Schoolgirl (TM). How is that not a recipe for pornography right there?

***

***

Remove the girls. Remove the Countess. Remove Preysing and his mother and his whole damn plot; just leave little Ursula and the General she so adores. 

They have slept together before, and have now become bolder, stealing little knee-tremblers here and there. 

For Ursula, it's merely a thrill; for Kurt--and Ursula is well aware of this--it's merely a matter of when and where Ruby will find them. So Kurt arranges for them these little trysts where they are supposedly safe from prying eyes, when they are all but fucking underneath Ruby's prim and proper nose. At times, Kurt seems to _want_ them to be found--but Ursula is too aroused by this to protest, already imagining how proud she will be when she is revealed to be the one who had stolen Kurt's heart. The younger, bustier, more sensual woman--yes, because Ursula is most definitely a woman, now, no longer a mere girl. Oh, the way she would stand up, her golden pubic curls glistening wet, her breasts firm and big, covered in love-bites; her make-up smeared from passionate kisses. A glorious, debauched harlot of the sort Ruby would never allow herself to be, the frigid creature that she is; what Kurt ever saw in her, Ursula does not know.

But now one part of this plan, namely the curlier aspect, is marred when Kurt takes Ursula to the bathroom and shaves her sex himself. The mad glimmer in his eyes as he kneels between her legs when she sits on the toilet, shorn of all hair; his monocle glinting harshly in the cold, artificial light. "Like a child's," he purrs, and kisses her mound; and perhaps Ursula is still but a girl to him after all. But oh, what does she care when it feels this good? All of her so sensitised his each touch makes her shiver? She closes her thighs around his neck, he still fully clothed, she naked and shivering from the cold. 

"Please. Don't stop," she says, his kiss never having felt this good, she never having been this hot and wet, so swollen; she had been dripping to her ass in seconds, and now she aches so much she thinks she won't even be able to walk.

He pulls off her, his mouth gleaming from her juices, his always-lewd lower lip so full and so red. He lets out a huffing laugh and licks his lips, smacking them. 

"Sugar," he murmurs, hisses, clutches his cock through his jodhpurs; as if he has not heard her at all. "That's how sweet you are," he says, sniffing her loudly, obnoxious, disgusting; he is smearing his nose and his mouth with her pussy, making Ursula cry out and buck against him. 

"Please!"

"Not here," he says, slapping her on the pussy, sending her jerking once more. He gets up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Over the piano."

"The piano?" She'd much rather do it on the bed, or the sofa, at least. 

"Yes, the piano," he says as he ushers her out of the bathroom, his hand a command upon the small of her back, brooking no argument. 

And there she lies, in broad daylight, splayed out on her belly over the piano. Kurt has spread her legs horizontally--he had watched the girls in secret during their daily exercises and had noticed Ursula had been the most flexible of them all, he'd said. And now he wants her to prove it, to elevate this flexibility to a real, worthy purpose: the enhancement of pleasure. Thus, he has arranged her into a near-full split, her pussy just on the edge of the piano, the lips of it spread out by his expert hands so that the entire weight of her pelvis is pressing her clitoris into the surface. 

She doesn't know if she is a work of art or one of those senseless, modern, surrealist grotesques they so love performing in Berlin--degenerate art, Kurt had called it. So it follows from that that he has made her into fine art, does it not? Some pagan display of Venus, like in the Roman times, when they carried giant vulvas through the streets.

But now he is between her legs, so tall that he can nuzzle her pussy when he is kneeling on the floor like that, Ursula flinching when he flicks his tongue deep inside of her. 

"Kurt!"

"Caught you just in time," he chuckles. "You were about to ruin the rug."

Ursula groans, straining. "I can't hold this pose. I'm going to fall off."

"We'll see about that."

And Kurt pulls open the curtains, pulls them open wide, when before, he had always been closing them every time they'd been having sex. They are on the ground floor, and should the girls pass by the French windows, they would be able to see them, oh, God. And yet, Ursula takes a perverse delight in this, her shame turning into a twisted sort of pride, an aphrodisiac. After all, Kurt has told her that shame should not be a part of their vocabulary, them being so much cleverer, bolder, stronger than the others.

But now he returns with the ropes from the curtains, swinging them playfully. "Can you take a hold of your toes with your hands? Both sides? Just like that."

And there, he attaches her wrists to her ankles, rearranging her on top of the piano, spreadeagled; again, he makes sure that her pussy is perched just upon the edge of it. "I am not a complete brute, you see," he says and gives her clitoris a little rub as he pushes her down. "Can you grind yourself against it still?"

"Yes," Ursula murmurs, blowing her hair from her face. 

He chuckles and draws her hair back, kissing her on the mouth. "Good. I want 'easy access,' as the Americans say," he grins, "but I also want to hear you come. No pretending, now. I will be able to tell," he says, smacking her on the ass. "You _do_ want them to know what they are missing out on, don't you?" he says.

"Yes," she chuckles back at him, then cries out, giggles as Kurt slaps her on both buttocks, spreading her pussy with his thumbs, smacking her again and again. "Yes, yes!" Ursula laughs, now, delighted, glad, theatrical but genuine.

"That's more like it!" he laughs. 

And behind her, she can hear that noise, that noise that always makes her pussy tighten, makes every hair on her body stand on end. The click of his belt buckle, then the buckle of its shoulder strap as he separates them. The thud of the thicker belt onto the floor--too thick for this purpose--and there, there, the tap of the thinner belt now folded in two, across her inner thighs, buttocks. "Let's see if we can make you just a little louder. Ready?"

"Ye--" but her voice breaks as Kurt whips her across the inner thighs, both of them, so hard she cannot even make a noise. 

"What was that?" he says, and she can hear the smirk in his voice. "Was that a 'more?'"

"I hate you," Ursula murmurs, panting; she had not expected him to hit her that hard.

"Wrong answer," he snaps and going by the rustling noise, he is now taking his cock out. Again, two harsh blows upon her thighs, stinging like hell, making her jerk, unable to even sob. Across her buttocks, he lashes her, numerous times, and she is grateful he doesn't make her count; she would have lost track by now, too dizzy from the pain, too breathless. He hits her so many times all the blows blur together into but one tapestry of pain all across her buttocks, her thighs, the welts he has dared lash across her labia making tears spring into her eyes. She wishes she could see herself, see this masterwork he has woven of her, but all she has is his touch, his voice, his scent to prove to her how beautiful she is made by his hand.

His breathing grows lower, wetter, huskier; from time to time, he nestles his cock within the slit of her pussy, spreading its wetness to the welts of her now-burning ass. Marking her, staining her, as if with this act he could tattoo her flesh with their sin, with perversion itself; she fancies little streaks of his pre-ejaculate soak into the welts, absorbed into her bloodstream. Oh, but she loves this, adores this cruel love of his, sadism at its purest, most refined: his arousal comes purely from hurting her, his sap seeping into her flesh before he has even penetrated her.

But it's not enough, nowhere near enough; now her entire pelvis is burning from this heat he has stoked inside of her, and she can hear how slick she is against his cock, he taking her, almost, almost.

"Please, Kurt," she moans, her voice raw, her throat sore. "Please take me. Please."

"Mm-hmm?" he says, tossing the belt aside, capturing her hair in his fist, nestling his cock into her pussy, pressing against her entrance. "Is this what you want?" he asks in a condescending croon, his mouth pursed as he leans close over her shoulder. His monocle is still glinting in his eye, light shining straight through his irises, his crooked teeth gleaming in the setting sun's light. 

"Please," she asks, stealing kisses from his lips, he too busy tasting her tears. "Please fuck me," she says, knowing he wants to hear that word, adoring the low moan that ripples from his belly into her body as she talks like a girl of good breeding shouldn't. "Please, Kurt. Please fuck me."

"Now, how could I resist you when you beg as prettily as that?" he purrs, kissing her eyelids, then yanks her head back by the hair once more. "Open up." 

And as he slides his cock inside of her, she stiffens, arches, gasps for breath: she is so swollen everywhere, her bare pussy so sensitised, he so huge, endlessly huge as he pushes into her, drives into her that she thinks she will pass out. He is pressing against her womb, too hard, painful, so hard that soon he'll come out of her throat, she thinks deliriously. She chokes, wants to move but cannot, her arms and her legs hurting, her ass and her buttocks burning, his fist in her hair so brutal tears streak down her cheeks once more. 

"Please," she sobs, but she does not know if she wants him to continue or to stop, "Please, please, please."

"Relax," he murmurs, letting go of her hair, cupping her throat, her cheek instead; she forces herself to breathe and he pulls back, pushes in, again pulls back and lifts his hips. And now, when he slides inside of her to the root, he is past the neck of her womb and into the very back of her vagina, so deep that it makes her feel nauseous at first, but she knows this terrible pressure will soon turn into terrific pleasure. In fact, it is already doing so, and as Kurt pulls back and glides back and forth inside of her, his hips pressing her clitoris into the piano, a shiver of pleasure goes through her, another, wave upon wave pushed through her by his wonderful body.

"There. Is that better?" he asks, now tightening his hand around her throat a little, feeling her pulse, grazing her jugular with his canines like a vampire; he snaps his teeth beside her ear, making her jerk in shock. He but laughs, of course, and rolls his hips, his woman's hips like a vamp would; adores her shouting out so loud right against his cheek as he takes her, fucks her, rolls into her with exquisite precision. "There. Isn't that right? That's just the right depth for your little pussy, isn't it?" he asks, an awful, pitying croon. "Is that what your little girl's pussy likes? Hmm?"

"Yes," Ursula moans, squeezing around his cock to keep it from leaving her too soon, the hairlessness of her vulva now having made her entire groin a glossy wet, slick, gloriously soaked. "Never been this wet in my life," she laughs, wild, mad. 

"Told you it'd feel amazing," he purrs. "So soft and slippery, _God,_ you feel absolutely _delicious._ Can you smell that?"

"Yes," she laughs, drunk from the fresh new sweetness of her pussy, a scent entirely unknown to her before: it is the most arousing, most debauched thing she has ever smelled, a scent more pornographic than the filthiest of French perfumes. She luxuriates in her whoredom, reels the greatest of courtesans, having made this tidy, genteel Rococo drawing room into a brothel with her scent. The air hangs thick from her sugar, a hint of salt; oh, but now she wants to know more, purses her pussy so that it trickles more, more around the deliciousness of his prick. "Let me taste it," she says, luxuriating in her child-whore self, displaying to him her little girl's mouth: open, slick, wet.

"Mmm?" he says, moving into her at a slow, lazy pace. "I want you to come on my cock first," he says and leans back, again bracing his feet upon the floor, his jackboots creaking. "Do you think you can come like that?"

She squirms. "I'm not sure."

And at that, he releases her wrists and her ankles; as blood rushes to them and she tries to move again, she nearly falls off the piano. She tingles everywhere as he helps her down, but then comes the disappointment: she is all too short for him to take while standing up, and he slips out of her.

But it is no matter. He closes the lid over the keys and pulls the stool close, patting his thighs. "Come sit in my lap."

But she stands there for a moment, leaning on the piano, still catching her breath, dizzy, staggering. And oh, but the sight of him--that blasted monocle is still intact, his uniform only lightly crinkled, and from between his legs, his cock points out beautiful, thick, full, red. She takes some satisfaction, however, in what surrounds it: her wetness has turned the entire front of his trousers into one dark, wet patch. And it smells wonderful, so sweet, beckoning to her, and she wants to taste, taste--

"Not yet," he says, and he lifts her up like a doll; with a few swift movements, he has taken her into his lap and sunk his cock inside of her to the root. "There."

She wants to yell at him for penetrating her so swiftly, because again he has hurt her, blown the air out of her lungs; but she is too busy hanging onto him for dear life, afraid she will fall off. It's impossible to move on top of him just right, no matter how much of a harlot she feels; now she is but frustrated. "I can't come like this either," she grumbles.

"You _have_ become a bossy little mistress!" he laughs. 

But he is tired of playing around, too: he kicks the stool out from underneath them and lays her down on the carpet, still inside of her. "There. Does that satisfy you?" he asks as he begins to thrust again, and oh yes, yes, it feels much better, now, much better.

But it is now that his monocle drops, falls into the hollow of her throat, and she has the last laugh; she tosses it away, sending it skittering into the corner so that he can't reclaim it just yet. "Finally."

"You'll pay for that," he grumbles, driving into her harder, yet she but squeezes around him again, making him groan, all of him shuddering, slithering on top of her plump softness. "Oh, God."

"Keep doing that," she grins and bites her bottom lip, stroking herself; she shivers in delight at how easily he moves in and out of her now that there is no fur in the way, how full her clitoris is now that there is nothing covering the area surrounding it. She can rub at its root, can now see him sliding in and out of her, see how exquisitely pink and swollen and shining she is, his cock such a dark, angry red in comparison, how large and adult in comparison to her tiny, girl's sex. But that's why she loves him: he being taller than most men, imposing, such a giant that she always feels so perfectly enveloped by him, so gloriously swallowed up by him, so completely and utterly crushed underneath him.

Oh, but like grapes, like fruit he is crushing her and pressing her little pussy, for now she flows sweet and wet and intoxicating, that sweetness become orgasm's wine: she jerks and howls, clutches at the small of his back with her ankles as she begins to come undone. His medals glittering, scratching her breasts, his hips plowing into her in a martial rhythm, the rhythm of the conqueror, the fittest, strongest, best of lovers, best: with a hoarse cry, she shudders around him, her pussy clutching him so violently that he howls, too. He keeps his strokes steady, even if all of him is trembling around her, so that he will not spill inside of her, impregnate her; this, and because he yearns to see her come, his face ravenous with greed as he watches her moaning and tossing and gasping, him drinking all of her sweetness in like brandywine. 

"Ursula--!" he cries and pulls out of her, falling onto his back, clutching at the rug, clawing streaks into it with his fingernails. He howls from between his teeth, stares at the ceiling, his cock jerking upon his belly, he now having completely ruined his uniform. 

"And that's my cue," Ursula grins, merely energised from her orgasm. Like a man, she takes him, spreads his legs like Kurt would a woman's; she cups his balls, the root of his cock in the circles of her fingers, just like he has taught her to. Her little child's hands, so small and so tight around his roundness, the heaviness of his balls, so full for her, so ready for her, and she wants to taste, taste, taste. So she licks up his cock: her own sweetness makes her shudder, his cock never having tasted so delicious from her before, like birch-sap, like honey, little swirls of foam around its root. Oh, but again she shivers: another, subtler orgasm now spreading through her hips as she intoxicates herself with herself, her sweetness, pussy, pussy, pussy; delirious, she reels from the nectar of sex. She licks up his shaft, sucks her taste off him with little kisses, but from the way he now looks up at her, all the veins on his temples distended, his eyes staring like those of a maniac--no, no, he can't possibly last much longer. 

So she takes mercy upon him and swallows him into her mouth, as deep as she can. Never taking her eyes off him, she rolls her head, rolls her tongue, massaging his cock with her mouth, never ceasing in her cupping of his balls, in her rolling of her little palm around the root of his cock. The little girl that he wants, the little wide-eyed schoolgirl of his dreams that he so fantasises of, debauched: this, she gives him, even if they both know her to be much older in spirit. This is no suck of a girl innocent, but the practiced "blow" of a Berlin boot-girl, a suck he had taught her himself; but it is her halo of blonde curls that she crowns this with, the sway of her reddened, plump little ass that she accompanies this with that now conspire to send him over the edge.

Her sugar is joined by his salt, her acidity subdued by his lye; he clutches her hair with both hands as he empties himself into her mouth. She chokes upon him, unable to swallow him down entire, that's how voluminous his sperm always is; it trickles out of the sides of her mouth onto his groin, onto the short-trimmed black hair of it. 

She coughs and gasps as Kurt finally lets go of her hair; he groans at the sight of his ruined uniform, then collapses onto the carpet, panting.

"They won't be back for a while," Ursula murmurs as she curls up next to him.

"Shame," he says, still panting. "You looked _delicious_ over the piano. I've never seen an _objet d'art_ quite like it."

"Maybe I will take you over it the next time," she says, undoing a button on his jacket, slipping her hand inside its warmth.

He bursts out into laughter. "You? Take me?"

"Mmm."

"You _have_ been reading that book I gave you," he says as he tucks himself back into his trousers. 

"From cover to cover."

The book that described those Berlin boot-girls, the different fetishes each one of them specialised in. Trampling, forced transvestism, penetrating men with artificial penises, and the more scatological ones--well, those she had skimmed past, wishing she had not read even the first sentence of that particular paragraph. But for all she knows, those were the exact girls Kurt had sampled in his Berlin days as a younger man; she would not put anything past him. 

He caresses her cheek. "Was there anything in there that piqued your interest?"

"You'll find out," she says, teasing, grinning, dancing her fingertips against the sweaty fabric of his under-shirt.

"God, you are well on your way to becoming a dominatrix!" he groans, but in his rolling eyes, she can see a spark of genuine excitement and delight. "Keeping me on my toes," he scolds her, ruffling her hair. 

"You bet," she laughs and wraps her limbs around him, hugging him tight. 

"But first, a bath," he says, his joints creaking as he sits up. "Before they come back and use up all the hot water."

"Must we?" she groans. "You just washed me."

"I mean that _you_ should wash _me,_ young lady," he says and helps her up, then picks her up in his arms as if she weighed next to nothing. Well, she is indeed as light as a feather: it's one of the reasons why he loves her petiteness so, because it makes even a man as thin as he seem stronger. "So that you won't forget your place," he snarls as he begins to carry her towards the bathroom.

"And where's that?" she asks coquettishly, kicking her feet in delight, kissing his cheek.

"Right here in my arms, my little mistress," he says and presses her against the wall; "right here," and he kisses her long and slow and deep.

**Author's Note:**

> Freely rebloggable Tumblr announcement post [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/140207688408/fic-glazed-in-honey-kurtursula-nc-17)


End file.
